Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity (24 page)

“You doin’ us a favor, comin’ down here, huh? This a social call?”

“I’m afraid n-" Byron began to speak, but Deng arced a backhand up so casually Byron didn’t even think to flinch. He found himself on the floor again, staring at those calloused, dirty feet.

“Nah, that ain’t it. This here’s business, right? You just got confused is all. You thought my shit was self-serve, right? You’d just swing on by – no need to bother me so late at night – and pick up some of my merchandise, leave the money on the counter, and be on your way. Am I right, or am I right, or am I right?”

“It’s not like that!” Byron protested, and a foot came up sharply, clipping him in the nose. Not hard enough to break the cartilage, but the jagged nails drew blood anyway. It spilled in a thin stream to the deck beneath him, and Byron quieted, staring blankly into the puddle.

“Ok, shit. That was harsh,” Little Deng seemed to lapse into momentary panic. He took a few quick, deep breaths, and held his hands out in placation. When he spoke again, his tone was softer. “I’m sorry. That shit was uncalled for. You gotta know you’re welcome here – hell, we had the red carpet laid out! This party, man, this shit’s for you! But you come at me like this, little prince? You fuckin’ break into my home – my lab?!”

As he awaited a response, Little Deng paced nervously across the dock; the sound of distant glass breaking followed with him.

“P-party? I’m afraid I don’t follow. Are you being facetious, sir? I realize we did not follow the protocol for meeting, but I assure you, we only wished to speak with you! I pleaded with your man outside,” this warranted a sharp guffaw from somewhere behind Byron, “and he regretfully informed us of your unavailability. The urgency of our claims did nothing to sway him, or perhaps we were remiss in impressing upon him the direness of the matter at hand. Please be assured, Monsieur Deng, that we would never deign to trespass if it were not of the utmost import. And we would never stoop so low as thievery, regardless of circumstance. Besides, have you ever known me to lack for funds?”

Fear had always made Byron loquacious. It was a habit that did him more harm than good, as those it did not confuse, it inevitably infuriated. But it seemed to be affecting Little Deng now: He stared disbelievingly at somebody behind Byron.

“That was a whole lotta words just to say ‘I’m sorry I’m such a faggot’” said a brute in the middle distance. Another laughed.

“He telling the truth?” Deng seemed to be addressing the man who spoke.

“Yeah, but boss he didn’t look like what you sai-" Deng made a quick motion with his hand, and the brute’s voice choked off too abruptly. There was something insidiously wet to that last syllable that told Byron the silencing had been violent in nature.

Now he heard only the clamoring of glass and the remote ebbing of water.

“Monsieur, please!” Byron fought back a rising surge of adrenal tears, “we meant no ill-will!”

“Settle down, buddy. Your daddy being who he is, that buys you an explanation. But some punk disrespects me, I don’t give a shit about his family, you understand?”

“No,” Byron answered honestly. His father? What did his father have to do with anything? Byron always took the utmost pains to conceal his identity. Privacy came easily with enough credits, and that was one thing Byron could provide.

“Good. I like that answer. That shit’s called brevity,” Deng Laughed, “that shit’s the soul of wit.”

Polonius? Those were his father’s words, the incessant, arrogant quotes…

“Boss, you popular today.”

Deng spun about with a sound like a cocktail party falling down a flight of stairs. Deng's body was obscuring the totality of Byron’s view, but he could tell that a group of visitors now stood uncertainly in the far doorway, surrounded by a posse of grey men in full battle regalia.

“About fuckin’ time!” Deng’s voice lifted joyously.

He shuffled toward the newcomers, his clawed toenails clacking loudly against the dock, and stepped out of Byron’s line of sight. As he did so, Byron met eyes first with a striking, if slightly mannish, dark-skinned, one-legged woman, followed by a slight, befreckled, redheaded fellow in an antique green blazer, complete with canary-yellow necktie, and finally with a haggard, pallid, and bleeding Red.

Red’s face went blank with disbelief.

“What the f-" he mouthed silently to Byron, but then Deng was embracing him tightly, spinning him around, and laughing uproariously.

James was doing his best to go unnoticed. It wasn’t hard work: Keep your mouth shut, stand somewhere dark, and don’t make eye contact. Easier for him than some -- he was never much of a presence to begin with: Slight of frame, short to middling height, a crop of chaotic red hair, and great, fleshy bags slung perpetually beneath each eye. Most people assumed he was some kind of socially stunted software engineer. 

He kept himself purposefully unkempt, just shy of noticeably disgusting. This served to cultivate a befuddled, uncertain aura, like a scatter-brained professor.

His featureless grey trousers and Robin’s Egg Blue button-down shirt were carefully neutral, of no particular style, cost, or time period. This served to emphasize his anonymity.

His necktie was brilliant yellow, and he kept it clean, crisp, and impeccably tied. This served to look
bloody
sharp.

A man’s got to have his pride.

James’ only custom piece of kit was the archaic green-and-black-checkered sportcoat, carefully worried, stained and frayed to emulate disuse. There was nothing special about the jacket itself; it was plain cloth of some defunct stock. Polyester, maybe? He’d heard the name before, but couldn’t say for sure. It was from before the public ‘feeds came online, that was for certain – there was no nano-fiber reinforcement, no low emission energy field to repel bots, not even an anti-bacterial nanosilver lining. The only tech in James’ jacket, he’d had to install himself, and it wasn’t exactly a high-end job: Just micrometer thick netting laced between the lining and the outer shell, coated in inert plastic. With the twist of a cufflink, the coating would lose its molecular stability, freeing up the razor-wire. The slightest movement would then send the net slicing through the fabric of the jacket, as well as any nearby flesh (preferably not his own). Well, that was how it worked in theory, anyway. By its very nature, it was a one-shot use, and testing its functionality would shred his sportcoat into a pile of perfectly symmetrical quarter inch fabric squares.

And he liked the coat. Went well with the tie.

So James kept his head down and his eyes open, waiting for his moment. But the crew of large, charcoal-skinned boatmen, each scarred and mutilated and reeking of chemicals and mold, presented no opening. To the untrained eye, they were a mess. They swore, cuffed one another, and carried every duty out with a plodding, dull-eyed, slack-jacked idiocy. But no fundamental perimeter line went unbroken, no man strayed too close to the prisoners, and no spear-point dipped too low to be quickly brought to bear. In the ‘Wells, everything was a feint. Spotting one was second nature to James. By ‘Wells standards, this was an artless and obvious ploy; these men were not dim-witted, slovenly oafs. They were tight and professional. Their eyes never stopped moving.

His moment never came.

The pale kid with the turban-braid had welcomed Red with genuine cheer, then shuffled him gently but firmly over to a barbed whip of a woman, her face and body all sharp angles and bony points beneath a pair of disposable green scrubs. The pair of them ducked down a hallway in the rear, and hadn’t been seen since.

Zippy immediately and loudly proclaimed her fondness for pretty boats and popcorn. She wasted no time setting her little identity game in motion, and it seemed to be working. None were fooled into thinking she was simple, of course – most anyone living close to the ‘Wells recognized a public persona when they saw one - but they were fooled into thinking that she wasn’t clever or subtle enough to craft a better ruse, and that was the point. They overlooked the way she used her peripherals to scan every step, every weapon, every exit. They did not watch for the odd tightening of the muscles or the drop in stance when she prepared for an attack, only to become blocked somehow, and shrug the movement off with a giggle.

Jesus bloody Christ, could he use a drink. Just the incessant clink of glass from the pasty kid’s hair was enough to set him salivating. He felt the dull construction of a headache start to erect itself behind his eyes.

The blonde bird with the Fuck You face was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Scraps of plastic wrap still clung to her underarms and behind her knees. A mesh ball gag with black vinyl straps was wrapped about her head. The thin line of exhaust mesh across the top gave the gag away as an Inertia Unit – something that cancelled nanotech. She must have spitters installed. Nasty little bitch, James thought appreciatively, and fought back a tingling ghost of attraction.

Across from the blonde a wispy lad sat with his legs clasped, knee over knee, like a woman. One wet, bare foot shook incessantly. He was too quick to laugh, and the gathering clouds in his eyes fingered him as a Gas addict. One about to be in very rough shape at that. James had him pegged as a Penthouse kid, by the lack of scars and modifications, but he lacked the weird burnt brown of regular UV exposure. Besides, Gas addiction wasn’t a Penthouse vice – SlimZ and Furies were all the rage up there, last he heard. Even high end Presence was a bit low rent for the skybox crowd.

The Penthouse kid seemed to know Red somehow, though neither had directly acknowledged it. James caught the shock of recognition on both of their faces when they’d first spotted one another, but what it meant, he hadn’t a clue.  The turbaned kid was making the rounds, surveying each of the newcomers and taking their measure, under the guise of hospitality. The mean little blonde he eyeballed warily and apologized for gagging:

“For our safety, right? Although I gotta say, shit looks good on you.”

He laughed; she glared.

The kid squinted down at Zippy, but she sold her goggle-eyed stare so thoroughly that he simply shook his head and moved on. The addict, he backhandedly insulted and socked in the arm, but there was a cautious tenderness in his movements, like he was scared of doing any real damage. The turbaned kid didn’t seem to want the addict to know that, however. Strange.

And then he shuffled up in front of James.

“Whadda we got here?” The kid elbowed the grey man beside him, who dutifully laughed. “You my accountant or some shit?”

James shrugged. Not meekly, not apathetically, just a slight raise of the shoulders. Measure every movement.

“You gotta name, brother?”

“James,” he answered simply.

“Me? I’m Little Deng,” the kid said jovially, “and this here’s my home. Y’all are my honored guests, so shake that stick outta your ass and unfold a little, will ya?”

“Yeah?  In that case be a mate and go get me a drink,” James took the gamble.

Silence. The grey men waited, hand on spear, for the insult to be taken. Deng mulled over the possible meanings of each syllable.

“Ha!” He finally laughed once. “Man after my own friggin’ heart here!”

Deng turned and clacked over to the bar. He poured a long, slick ooze of whiskey into a clear plastic tumbler, and handed it to James. James tilted it back, and let the wave of relief slide through him.

“If that’s how you treat honored guests,” James spat the liquid onto the floor, “I’d hate to see what you do to the help.”

One of the grey men laughed out of turn, and quickly cut himself off, anticipating some form of punishment. A toothy, genuine smile carved through Deng’s carefully sardonic mask. He lifted a smaller bottle from beneath the counter there, shaking it tantalizingly from side to side, and poured something honey-colored into a squat, bell-shaped glass.

“This here,” Deng said smugly, “I get from a dude up in Industry. He gets it from outside the City. Imports it! You believe that shit? Hadda look up the friggin’ word, when he first told me. He trades me one bottle of this fine, beautiful hooch for twenty-two hour’s worth of illegal Presence from the banned continuities. Likes to go back a few years and kill his own kids, before they grew up and fought back. Hard to build Gas that goes that recent, you know? Hard, expensive, and dangerous. That’s death, for dealing in a banned continuity -- not to mention all the feed-blocks Industry’s got in place for mixes that cover the last twenty years, but this shit? This shit is worth it.”

James tipped the bell-glass back and swallowed a careful half-sip.

“I would fuck this,” he whispered in awe. Despite every instinct in his body, James began to like the kid, just a little bit.

“Can I have some juice too?” Zippy chimed in sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

“Shut-up-bitch,” Deng snapped back automatically.

James’ newfound affection wavered, but the anger almost immediately turned to pity: Deng, the poor bastard, had bought into Zippy’s act, and was starting to dismiss her entirely.

“Little Deng,” James sloshed words and whiskey together in his mouth. “Named for your old man?”

“Naw, Deng? He’s no daddy. More like a mean uncle. Big Deng was the shit back in a place called Sudan. Rain god and what not. Shit’s important in the desert, rain. Rare. Not like here. Deng, he’d help you out of a jam or two, sure, but you always gotta do something back, and he ain’t exactly gonna powder your behind after.”

“And these blokes here,” James said, gesturing with his glass at the grey men scattered about the room, “tell me something: Is what they say true?”

“Eh, you know people: They say things.”

“The ghost spears. Pass through your armor before you get a chance to bleed an’ all.”

“Nah, they ain’t shit. Too friggin’ dark in the Rez to throw ‘em worth a damn, and outside the Reservoir, there just ain’t enough room. We just like the story, is all. A good story, you know? That shit’s worth a thousand spears.”

Little Deng shuffled around the bar. The toenails clacking and glass tinkling composed an awkward little melody, like a child carefully picking out all the wrong notes to a song on a broken piano. He settled wearily onto the stool beside James and threw his elbows up on the counter. He sipped at his own whiskey gingerly, and closed his eyes.